Exposure
In space, no one can hear you scram. Above her, the fuel line’s couplings resembled garden hoses poorly connected, hissing and releasing fuel in little jets and clouds of mist. It coated every nearby surface, including her body. “Shitshitshitshit” Marisol growled as she clawed her way up. Just ahead lay the emergency shutdown, a large red button protected under a clear plastic housing. BEEUP…BEEUP…BEEUP…BEEUP… This would put the ship on battery power…about six hours’ worth, hurtling through the black with little more than positioning thrusters to change attitude. But they’d breathe. If fuel line couplings were all she had to repair, she could have them running again inside of two. “Chavez here,” Marisol shouted at the intercom. “I have to scram the reactor to fix the fuel leaks. We’re going to battery in three…two…one… Her hand stopped short. Here she was, completely naked, drenched in fuel, …and about to mash a relatively high voltage button on a contaminated electrical console. In its’ current fuel coated condition, a single spark would set off a maelstrom that she could only stop by venting the compartment to space. That , of course, meant herself as well, and only if she wasn’t so engulfed in flames that she could open the vent. “Please,” she implored the fates, “don’t spark…don’t spark…now.” Her right palm struck the button, plunging the engine room decks into darkness. Marisol held her breath as the reactor ground to a halt. After a few tortuous seconds, relays up on the primary deck kicked loudly into place. She could hear the power alternator spin slowly up to speed. A sickly amber glow bathed the compartment; the emergency lighting had kicked on. The intercom squealed and popped as if Riley’s boiling anger had willed it back from the dead. First things first. Marisol cranked the fuel shutoff valves. BEEUP…BEEUP…BEE. “Gracias,” she whispered for the relief. The fire extinguisher came next. Marisol sprayed the heavy foam until the leak zone took an almost cheerful Christmas card imagery. Then, the mechanic turned the extinguisher on herself. The little tank gave up its’ last, which she rubbed vigorously onto her skin and hair. She’d taken a dose, no doubt. Fortunately the unburnt fuel held a low roentgen emission. The deactivating agent in the foam would render the uranium content inert, but that still wouldn’t negate what she’d already absorbed. She’d think about that later. Time now to keep Riley from going nuclear. “Chavez here,” she replied to the pilot. “Status update. Three simultaneous fuel leaks, all at line couplings.” She took a breath to continue, but her words choked off under a withering verbal assault from the cockpit. "How the rut do you cause not one but THREE fuel leaks? Didn't you check the gorram lines? Stupid question, because if you did, we wouldn't be having this ruttin' conversation! I want a full report." Marisol almost fired off her own bile, a hot denial couched in a rebuke. But no…not now. Not until she truly had meat and potatoes to talk about. “Yes, Lieutenant. You’ll have my report as soon as we’re patched and cleaned. For now, there’s contamination on the reactor deck, but the fire hazard is eliminated. Repair ETA two hours. If we keep engineering sealed there’s no risk to the rest of the boat.” "If she turns out to be another damn companion masquerading as an actual crew member, I will space 'er." Marisol whirled toward the com speaker, a healthy stream of invective at the ready. She’d take hell from a captain or a mate for a problem, but…no. In truth, she was masquerading…though she wasn’t a gorram whore. Mind to the mission, she drew herself from the rhetorical brink. Yet, for all her self control, Marisol couldn’t resist a single, quiet response as she set to her task. “Puta.”